The Lone Spider

Dream of revolution, a shade of violet,
the coming catastrophe, nothing but silence,
a feverish wake-up call running through the streets,
figureheads broken in the bonfire,
accidents break out without conspiracy,
pure chance smashed like an exploding glass of wine,
the splinters make the barricades.
Rats escape through alleyways choked with noise & tender deaths.
All the empires in grief come to naught.
My identity is that spiraling star
witnessing the strobe lights of history’s
clipped nails dispersed in a hurry.
Never to fall, never to forget.
The sweet, eviscerating silence.
They come, these sailing dynamites
without words or message.
A tortured tree in transformation grammar
of irreversible baptism of machine guns,
shooting up my comrades in the grace of chaos.
I arrange no crown made of olive branches & leaves.
The future is not yet stolen from us.